


The Means of Destruction: Being a Tale of Epic Romance, in Which the True Magic is the Class Consciousness We Found Along the Way

by HC_Weatherfield



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alternate Universe - Coffee Shops & Cafés, Crack Treated Seriously, F/F, Love at First Sight, M/M, Magical Theory, Multi, Save the Cat, Squib Harry Potter, There’s an ofc I’m so sorry, Vernon Dursley Being an Asshole, Wine, also, and, and a very dumb Draco, but there’s also a cat, cliched jokes about oysters, featuring a French Wizarding world just as bad at naming things as the English one, is apparently already a tag which I approve of, jk, need I say it, original goblin characters who deserve the world, some not very sneaky spying, this is a mess
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-02-11
Updated: 2021-02-15
Packaged: 2021-02-28 02:49:03
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 12,285
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22666546
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HC_Weatherfield/pseuds/HC_Weatherfield
Summary: Harry doesn’t know he’s a squib, or that his parents were murdered by an evil wizard.  All that he knows is that he’s poor, gay, and tired, and the sexy nuisance known as Draco Malfoy is more trouble than he’s worth.A coffee shop AU that spun immediately and wildly out of control, becoming an epic tale of the fight against Voldemort, with a surprising number of Marxist themes.  Pray for me.
Relationships: Draco Malfoy/Harry Potter
Comments: 15
Kudos: 97





	1. Not Yr Commodity

**Author's Note:**

> This was supposed to be a romantic oneshot.
> 
> And, to my regular readers: why, yes, I did post the latest chapter of ‘The Locket’ specifically so I wouldn’t feel guilty about posting this. 
> 
> Oh, quick warning: there’s some sex-work-negative language in this chapter, because Harry doesn’t think before he speaks.

Turning back to the till from the bake case, Harry accidentally elbowed a stack of cardboard cups, knocking it to the floor.

“Fuck, let me get that,” he muttered, setting the scone down on the counter so he could crouch down to collect the cups and toss them in the bin. When he stood back up, he was looking into the eyes of a very offended young mother who was covering her sleeping infant’s ears.

“Sorry,” he said, “thoughtless of me. You wanted jam and Devonshire cream with that?” The irate woman nodded. Harry slapped processed packages of jam and cream onto the plate with the greasy scone and said, “There you are. Your latte will be right out.”

The woman’s cheeks were bright red with anger. Harry expected her to ask to see the manager, but it was worse than that. Still silent, the woman dug her manicured paw into the tip jar and dug out the two-pound coin she’d previously dropped in.

Harry was left gaping after her as she stalked to the pick-up counter, pram in tow.

“Shame,” said a posh voice, practically in his ear. “That poor child has been corrupted for life by a single overheard word, and all while it’s still in the larval stage. You must be mortified.”

Harry turned to find what he assumed was an escaped character from an E.M. Forster novel leaning over the counter. The man was about Harry’s age, but that was where their similarity ended. He was tall, angular, and coiffed, with pale blond hair and cutting grey eyes. His clothes looked expensive, but there were no designer labels on him, no lavish wristwatch or anything else to announce his wealth, other than his voice and his posture. He was classy, this bloke, but there was not an ounce of modesty in him. Harry wanted him at once.

“What are you looking at?” the blond asked, apparently amused.

“Nothing.” Harry swallowed. “Er, it’s just that...what’s a bloke like you doing in a place like this?”

The blond laughed and cocked his head slightly to read Harry’s nametag.

“I could ask the same of you...Harry.”

“You’d get no answer,” Harry assured him. “What d’you want, then?”

The blond just raised his eyebrows.

“I mean to drink,” Harry clarified.

“Oh, never mind that. What time are you off?”

“Sorry?”

“Forgive me, I’m not terribly experienced with these things,” said the blond. “When one works...that workday does _end_ , yes? At which point one is free to pursue one’s own desires until business recommences the following day?”

“Er, yeah,” said Harry, “that’s the theory.”

“As I thought. Then I reiterate my question. What time are you off?”

“I leave here at six,” said Harry, wryly adding, “for my other job, which starts at seven.”

“Industrious. How quaint. And when, pray tell, does your workman’s odyssey end?”

“Past your bedtime,” said Harry.

“How do you know?” asked the blond. There was a line forming behind him now. Though somewhat aroused, Harry was also annoyed at the man’s attitude, as well as confused about his apparent interest in Harry. So he pointedly looked over the man’s shoulder.

“Sir, if you’re going to order anything, I’m going to need you to do so now. I’m afraid you’re holding up the queue.”

The blond raised his eyebrows, but stepped aside and waved the next person on. Harry quickly lost himself in taking orders, giving pleasant smiles, letting his fingers fly over keys they knew by heart. This was the part he didn’t mind so much about his job--when he could go on autopilot and just forget. It wasn’t a happy feeling, exactly, but it was much better than most of the feelings he had experienced in his life.

Finally the queue dispersed, and Harry took a step back, closed his eyes for a moment, and breathed. Then he looked over his shoulder at his friend Amy, who was leaning over the counter between the kitchen and the till area. He opened his mouth to comment on the strange interaction he’d had with that blond man, but Amy just raised her eyebrows and jerked her head toward the till counter. Harry turned around to find the blond standing there again.

“Come to dinner with me tonight,” he said.

“I can’t,” said Harry. “I’ve got work. I already said.”

“Don’t go.”

“I have to.”

“Oh, come on. Look--what is this job?”

Harry huffed and turned around to look at Amy with a ‘can-you-believe-this-tosser’ look on his face. She just shrugged and spoke to the blond.

“He does overnight stocking at Tesco three times a week.”

“What’s T--” the blond started, but then shook his head. “Ah, yes, the grocer’s. Right, well, I’m sure the edifice will remain standing if you beg off one night.”

“I’m sure it will,” Harry ground out, “but I need the money. Now, if you’re quite finished pointing out my own poverty to me, I--”

“No,” the blond interrupted, “No, I rather think I’m not. See, I’m very rich, and I refuse to miss out on a good evening simply because a hovel like this refuses to compensate you adequately for your labor. I insist you dine with me. I’ll make it worth your while.”

For a moment, the prospect tempted Harry. The blond was more than a bit of all right, and Harry was the first to admit he was a slut. It was part of his regimen to purge all Dursleyishness from his new adult life: get his own place, grow his hair long, and be as aggressively homosexual as possible. And he’d never been with someone quite as good-looking, or quite as strange, as the blond in front of him. But it was all a ridiculous fantasy. He had bills to pay.

“Sorry to disappoint,” said Harry, “but I’ve got to make rent.”

“I’ll pay it,” said the blond with a shrug. “Money is no object for me. You shouldn’t have to suffer when your time could be spent so pleasantly.”

Harry was suddenly awash with fury of an intensity he hadn’t felt since he’d left the Dursleys’. He practically snarled, “Fuck you.”

“I don’t underst--” the blond began in his same casual tone, but Harry cut him off.

“I am _not_ a _whore_ ,” he hissed.

Apparently he hissed it louder than he’d intended, as he looked up to see the whole cafe staring at him, including his manager, Eric, who had been speaking with the tip-revoking woman from earlier.

“Harry,” said Eric, “my office, if you please."

Harry looked down, fighting furious tears, as he walked toward the managers’ shared office. He really didn’t want to see the blond man’s face right now. Or Amy’s, for that matter.

***

Draco surreptitiously cast another warming charm on himself. He’d been waiting outside the cafe for nearly half an hour now; it was amazing how long it apparently took to fire someone. Which, of course, hadn’t been his intention when he began speaking to the man at the till, but it was probably for the best after all. It seemed deeply wrong to Draco that someone so attractive worked in such a menial position. Draco would have to get him a decent position before he left here. With a wand in the Muggle world and with money to boot, there was little Draco couldn’t do in that regard.

Finally, the man--Harry--stormed out of the cafe and nearly ran into Draco.

“You!” he spat furiously.

“ _There_ you are,” said Draco at almost the same moment.

“Leave me the fuck alone,” said Harry. “Haven’t you done enough damage? I’ve been suspended, you know, pending fucking termination. You had to stand there and say your fucking piece, and now my landlord’s going to throw me out on my arse come next week.”

“I was waiting to apologize,” Draco told him.

“ _Not_ accepted,” said Harry.

“At least let me take you to dinner.”

“What part of ‘I have to work to survive’ doesn’t compute for you?”

“I can get you a new job,” said Draco. “A better one, so you wouldn’t have to work two.”

“Oh yeah?” Harry scoffed. “And what would you want for that?”

“Nothing,” said Draco as innocently as he could. “It would be for aesthetic reasons. You’re too attractive to work in a place as ugly as that.”

“ _Please_ ,” Harry spat.

“I’m being perfectly honest. Of course, some conversation and a night or two spent fucking you until you lose your voice from screaming my name would be nice too, but really, seeing you well set up would be its own reward.”

Harry fixed him with an intense look.

“And what _is_ your name?”

“Draco.”

Harry threw his head back and laughed. “That’s the most ridiculous thing I’ve ever heard.”

“I’m confident you’ll grow accustomed to it,” said Draco, hiding his annoyance with a smirk. Harry wasn’t the first Muggle to react to his name in such a way; he supposed their customs were different.

“I really won’t,” Harry said. “I’d prefer never to have met you, but forgetting you will have to do. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’ve a job search to conduct.”

“I told you,” said Draco, frustrated, “I can get you a job!”

“And I meant what I said before,” replied Harry, raising his voice again. “I won’t prostitute myself, not for anything. And I won’t _owe_ anybody. I belong to myself, and I will take care of myself. I won’t be under anyone’s power ever again. I swore that to...stop looking at me like that.”

Draco muttered, “You would have been a Gryffindor.”

“What?” said Harry.

“Nothing. Just one of the houses at my school. I think you’d have fit right in.”

“Houses? Wha--oh, public school, right.” Harry shivered.

“What’s wrong with that?” asked Draco.

“Those places creep me out. What do they teach you there--how to whack each other with sticks and alienate workers from the means of production? It's a wonder you can even read.”

“That’s rather rude,” said Draco.

“Actually,” Harry continued, "I haven't seen any proof you _can_ read. Probably have servants to do it for you. Well, I'm sorry, but that's not my kind of gig."

“Harry,” said Draco softly before the other could turn away, “I really _am_ sorry. I had no intention to...be a malignant force in your life. I wanted a date with the pretty boy at the till, that’s all.” In his experience, talk of this sort worked well on Muggles. And fuck him if Draco didn’t really, really want this Muggle.

Possibly more than once. Yes, he thought he’d break his rule for Harry.

“I’m not a 'boy,'” said Harry viciously, “and I’m not pretty. What I am is tired, and probably homeless now, too, thanks to you. Please leave me alone.”

“All right,” said Draco. And, full of resolve, he turned on his heel and walked away.

***

It would be tight for the next week, but Harry actually had just managed to scrape together his rent money for the following month. With a sigh, locked his door behind him and walked down to the office of his landlord, Mr. Chatwal. He knocked and went in.

“Harold,” said Mr. Chatwal in apparent surprise, “What brings you here?”

“Er, I have my rent?” said Harry, confused.

Mr. Chatwal’s eyes widened. “You mean you don’t know?”

“Know what?” asked Harry nervously.

“Your rent for the rest of the year has been paid in full.”

“...the _year_? But it’s January,” said Harry, blinking.

“Yes,” said Mr. Chatwal, fixing him with a suspicious look. “Seems you have a good friend.”

“Right,” said Harry, in shock. “Right. Did he leave his name?”

“Not with me,” said Mr. Chatwal, “but he left this for you, just a moment…ah!” He dug in his desk drawer and pulled out an envelope, handing it to Harry.

“Thanks,” said Harry, numb.

“Yes,” said Mr. Chatwal. “And, Harold?”

“Yeah?”

“You're a good boy. Don't get too mixed up in whatever this is.”

“Thanks,” said Harry, “but I don’t think it’s anything like _that_. Just this meddling idiot I met.”

Mr. Chatwal raised his eyebrows, but he only said, “All right,” and waved Harry out of his office.

Harry returned to his apartment, sitting down in his creaky armchair and opening the envelope. There was a single sheet of paper inside, written on in impeccable calligraphy. Harry scoffed, then read:

> _Harry,_   
>  _Consider this my apology for the way I behaved when we met. I have a standing reservation at Tricolore (the Italian restaurant at the corner of Theobald Ave. and Goldberry St.) at 18:30 every night for the next two weeks. The Maitre’d will call me if you arrive, in which case I will join you shortly. I would very much like a chance to speak with you._   
>  _Sincerely,_   
>  _Draco Malfoy, Lord Pelinor, Earl of Wiltshire._

Harry was irritated. He was going to have to show up to the restaurant. He needed to make the toff--oh, excuse him, the Earl--take his goddamned money back and rein in his self-righteousness.

The problem was, to do so, he’d have to be in the same room with him again.

With a sigh, Harry took out his phone and called Amy. He had some venting to do.


	2. The Petty Bourgeois

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> At his not-a-dinner-date with Draco, Harry runs into some surprising fellow diners and some even more surprising revelations. For example: who knew you were supposed to *sip* wine?

Draco couldn’t help but smile when his floo rang. It was the maitre’d of Tricolore, who, though a Muggle, had a witch for a sister and therefore catered to Muggle and Wizarding clientele alike. He smiled at Draco and told him his guest had arrived. After waiting fifteen minutes to make his response time believable to a Muggle, Draco walked into the restaurant, scanning the place as he handed his coat to the hostess.

 _There_ was Harry, seated facing the door at a prime table in the center of the restaurant, his eyes narrowing as he spotted Draco.

“Thank you for coming,” said Draco as he slid into his seat.

“I came to ask you to take it back.”

“Pardon?”

“The money,” said Harry, leaning toward Draco on his elbows as if he had been raised in a barn. “Take it back. I don’t want it.”

“I can’t,” said Draco firmly. “It’s already spent.”

“Then I’ll have to pay you back,” said Harry. “It’ll take all year though. Here, I have the first month with me now…”

“Don’t be absurd,” said Draco. “I did this so you wouldn’t suffer from my actions.”

“I would have been fine,” said Harry, getting angry already.

“Perhaps,” said Draco, “but now I know for certain you will be.”

“Why do you care?” asked Harry. “You seemed pretty careless before. Why should I think you did this out of some sort of sense of generosity, or even guilt? Not that I’d be okay with it in either of those cases, either.”

“A Malfoy always corrects his errors,” said Draco, “and I never make enemies if I can help it.”

“Well, you can’t always help it,” Harry observed.

“Not always,” said Draco, slightly emphasizing the latter word.

“I can’t let you--” Harry’s objection was cut off by the appearance of their waiter, who presented Draco with a bottle of wine. He tasted it, then nodded for it to be poured into his and Harry’s glasses. Harry watched in open astonishment.

“I’m not staying,” Harry pointed out.

“That’s a shame,” said Draco, “as I’ve planned our entire menu for the evening. Do at least taste the wine.”

Angrily, almost in spite of himself, Harry grabbed his wine glass. As he drank, he rationalized to himself that it would be unwise for his now unemployed arse to turn down free alcohol. And the wine was nice--he wasn’t the sort to appreciate what made it different from other wines, but it was a bit fruity and obviously better than the swill he usually bought for himself. He gulped it down.

“It’s not a race,” Draco observed.

“Make up your mind,” said Harry. “Are you trying to buy me or be my mother?”

“Neither,” said Draco simply.

“I don’t believe you, but I’ll have more wine.”

“Do try sipping,” said Draco as he poured. “It’s the latest thing.”

Harry rolled his eyes but slumped back in his chair a bit. After taking a sip, he asked, “Well, what are we having then?”

Draco raised his eyebrows. “Oysters to start, then the funghi pasta, because I have it on good authority that the mushrooms here are divine. Dessert is a surprise.”

Harry nodded thoughtfully. Vernon and Dudley _hated_ mushrooms, which meant, of course, that Harry had become quite fond of them. It sounded like a good meal. And Harry wasn’t a person who had had a lot of good meals in his life.

“All right,” he said at last. “You’ve got me. I’m not one to turn down food.”

Draco frowned, but said nothing. They both sipped their wine, regarding each other.

“I don’t get it,” Harry said at last. “Why’d you come up to me in the first place?”

“Because,” Draco said with a shrug, “you’re beautiful. I like beautiful things. I watched you for a while, and you seemed like someone I’d enjoy spending time with.”

“And do you do that often?” asked Harry, taking a fortifying gulp of his wine. “Just spy on service workers until you decide the time is right to ambush them?”

“Actually, I usually just go to a club. I walked into that cafe intending to get a cuppa. You changed my plans.”

“ _You_ changed your plans,” Harry corrected. “I was just standing there, doing my job?”

“So I suppose it’s your job to use pickup lines on customers?”

“That’s not fair,” Harry growled. “What was I supposed to do, with you standing so close and speaking in my ear? If I short-circuited and blurted something stupid out, you can’t blame me.”

“What changed?”

“What do you mean?”

“Why did you express interest at first,” Draco drawled slowly, “and then change your mind about me so quickly?”

“You solicited me for prostitution!”

“I did no such thing.”

“Did too!”

Draco brought his hand to his brow in frustration. “Perhaps you could explain to me how you came to that conclusion,” he said.

“Don’t play dumb!” Harry exclaimed. “You offered to pay me to go on a date with you. What did you think you were doing?”

Draco thought for a moment and then said, “Ah yes. I can see how that would have looked.”

“Can you,” said Harry, relishing the heavy sarcasm on his tongue. (The Dursleys hadn’t approved of sarcasm).

“I understand why you are reluctant to believe me,” said Draco, “but my intention was not to insult you or to make trouble for you. Nor, even, to pay you to date me.”

“All right,” said Harry dryly, “then what was it?”

“Simple, at least from my perspective. To spend what I believed would be an enjoyable evening with a person who interested me, and to remove all obstacles to that goal.”

“Good job,” Harry said, tipping his wine glass sarcastically.

Draco raised his eyebrows. “You’re here, aren’t you?”

Harry had nothing to say to that, so he stayed silent. He and Draco stared challengingly at each other until the oysters came. Draco showed Harry how to eat them, and soon Harry had the first bite in his mouth and Draco had an odd look on his face.

“What?”

“Nothing,” said Draco. So, with a shrug, Harry took another bite.

“Stop that,” Draco snapped.

“Stop what?”

“You’re--do you have _no_ manners?”

“Er,” said Harry, “None that I’m aware of, so I really have no idea what heinous sin you think I’ve committed.”

“You’re--” Draco leaned in closer and whispered, “You’re _moaning_ every time you take a bite! It’s indecent!”

Harry flushed. “Sorry, it’s just--I’ve never had anything like this before. Sorry.”

Draco looked shocked and a bit disapproving. With a sigh, Harry pushed his plate away, but Draco shook his head.

“Please, I didn’t mean to--go on. I’m sorry.”

Cautiously, Harry took another bite and tried not to make any sound at all. Judging by the look on Draco’s face, he hadn’t succeeded.

“If this is how you react to the first course,” Draco choked out, “I think I’d like to buy you dinner every night.”

“That’s it, this is humiliating,” said Harry. “I’m leaving.” And he drained the rest of his wine glass and stood, turning to walk out of the restaurant. He thought he could hear Draco saying something as he walked away, but he tuned out his surroundings--until he bumped squarely into someone.

He looked up and couldn’t believe his eyes. For the first time since he had turned eighteen, Harry was looking into the splotchy purple face of his uncle Vernon.

“Boy!” Vernon spluttered, at the same time Petunia--who, Harry faintly registered, was standing nearby--hissed, “Potter!”

Looking into the hate-filled faces of the man and woman who had supposedly 'raised' him, Harry forgot all the pithy remarks he’d stored up during sleepless nights, the stinging and witty things he’d have liked to say if he ever saw them again. Now that he was in their presence, he couldn’t say a word.

“Out of the way, boy!” Vernon spat.

Suddenly, Harry felt an arm around his shoulders. Draco’s arm.

“Hello, love. What’s the matter? Is this gentleman giving you trouble?” Draco’s voice was posh and ice cold.

A nasty gleam appeared in Vernon’s eye.

“This is what it’s come to, then, is it, boy? Whoring yourself out to rich ponces? I told you he’d come to no good, didn’t I, Petunia?”

“ _Vernon_ ,” she hissed disapprovingly.

“ _Au contraire_ ,” said Draco, “My Harry is a jewel beyond price. You, on the other hand…” Draco looked Vernon up and down. “Well, let’s just say you couldn’t pay _me_.”

“A _French_ faggot,” spat Vernon. “Just when I think you couldn’t sink any lower, Potter…”

Finally, Harry found his voice.

“Gay or not, he’s worth at least ten of you. Not to mention, his wristwatch alone could buy your house, and probably Dudley as well. The way I see it, I’m moving up.”

“Why, you…” began Vernon, digging his fingers into Harry’s shoulder.

“I’ll thank you to take your hands off my date,” said Draco.

“He’s _my_ nephew, boy, and I’ll do what I bloody well like to him!” Vernon roared over Petunia’s shushings and hisses.

“Sir,” said the maitre’d, coming up behind him, “I’m going to have to ask you to leave.”

As Vernon rounded on the maitre’d and began shouting at him, Draco quickly ushered Harry away to the loo. Once they were there, Draco lifted Harry so that he was sitting on the counter, then began dabbing at his face with a monogrammed handkerchief. Harry was too much in shock to protest.

He didn’t know how long he’d been sobbing; he only realized he’d been doing it when Draco began to make quiet, soothing shushing noises. Harry sniffled and looked up.

“I’m sorry.”

“You’re not the one who should be sorry,” said Draco. “What _was_ that _thing_?”

“My uncle,” said Harry.

“Ah,” said Draco. “And the hobby-horse he had with him?”

“My aunt.” Harry tried to wipe his eyes with his sleeve, only to find Draco’s handkerchief was there first. “I’m sorry. I thought...but it was stupid. I was going to run into them eventually. I just…”

Draco shook his head. Harry looked into his eyes, and he saw compassion there, but not pity.

Right then, Harry decided to forget, for the next few minutes, that he hated this man. He rested his head on Draco’s shoulder.

For a moment, Draco stilled. Then he reached up and began to stroke Harry’s hair. They were silent for a while.

When Harry finally lifted his head, Draco asked, “Why did they call you ‘Potter’? I thought your name was Harold Evans?”

“That’s what I put on my job application,” Harry admitted. “I changed it as soon as I turned eighteen, so they wouldn’t find me. I was born Harry Potter. Always thought it was rather unfair, you know, being called Harry without it being short for anything. And Evans was my mother’s maiden name.”

Draco was still. “Evans?”

“Lily Evans,” Harry confirmed, his eyes distant. “And my father was James Potter. That’s all I know about them, really--their names. That, and the fact that they died in a car crash when I was a little over a year old.”

He looked at Draco, who looked as if he’d just had the shock of his life. “What?”

“Harry...Potter. Son of Lily Evans Potter and James Potter.”

“Did you know them?” Harry asked, puzzled.

“Did I…” Draco gave a hysterical little chortle. “Did I _know_ them!”

“All right,” said Harry, starting to get a bit angry, “I need you to tell me what’s going on here.”

“What’s going on. Right.” Draco looked at Harry, then shook his head in disbelief. “Merlin’s fucking bollocks. I can’t believe this.”

“What?”

“Harry Potter,” said Draco. “You’re the Boy Martyr.”

Harry stared at him.

“I’m a what?”


	3. Class Warfare

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Draco Malfoy's crash course in Wizarding history; includes alimentary adventure and the introduction of an important character.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Welcome back! This is where it really gets weird.
> 
> ~waves~ thank you for being here today.

“Look, Harry,” said Draco, “Everybody in my fucking world knows your name. But we all thought you were dead.”

“What the fuck? Who’s ‘we’?”

“‘We’ is...oh, Circe. We’re going to need more drinks. Come back to mine and I’ll explain it all.”

“I don’t think so,” said Harry, getting down off the counter and trying to sidle away.

“Look, Harry, this is...this is monu-fucking-mental. We need to talk about it, however you feel about me right now.”

“You have yet to explain what ‘it’ is,” Harry pointed out.

“You’re right, but, look--this isn’t a conversation we can have in the loo. Just come with me, all right?”

“No,” said Harry, shaking his head and backing away, “I don’t think so.”

“Harry, you can’t just ignore this.” Draco took a deep breath. “Your parents didn’t die in a car crash. They were murdered, Harry. They were murdered by an evil wizard called--”

But Draco didn’t get to finish his sentence, because Harry punched him in the face and ran.

***

Harry was halfway back to his apartment when he realized that Draco _knew where he lived_. He stopped dead, spun in a frustrated circle, kicked a brick wall, and then started to run toward Amy’s place with one sore foot.

As soon as he was there, he buzzed and buzzed, muttering to himself, “Please be home, you smarmy bint, be home, please…” So immersed was he in his muttering that he nearly fell over from surprise when the building’s door opened.

“Harry?” said Amy, “Are you all right?”

“You’re...I was buzzing,” said Harry.

“I noticed,” she said dryly. “I thought it would be faster to come down here and let you in than to wait for you to stop buzzing so I could reply. You coming in?”

“How’d you know it was me?” Harry asked as he stepped inside.

“Call it a hunch.” They made their way up to Amy’s apartment, which was just as much of a shithole as Harry’s, if rather more charmingly decorated with its swags of tie-dyed fabrics and bead curtains in all the doorways. Add to that the stacks of books on the floor, the actual fucking lava lamp on the coffee table, and the fat cat lying belly-up on the rag rug, and it looked like a head shop owned by a former librarian. God, he _loved_ Amy.

“What’s wrong, Harry?"

“Pretty much fucking everything,” Harry realized as he said it aloud.

“Sit the fuck down, then. D’you want the vodka that tastes like antifreeze or the tequila that tastes like gasoline?”

“This is a tequila problem,” Harry replied.

“Oh my,” said Amy, pouring out healthy measures of tequila into two cracked mugs. She handed Harry the “friends of the library” mug and kept for herself the one that pictured Happy Bunny in a strait-jacket.

“Cheers,” she said. They clinked mugs, then drank.

“ _Fuck_ , that’s awful.”

“Yeah,” Amy agreed, “and it makes you into a filthy slut.”

“True, but I like the way it kills the whole world.” Harry took another swallow, then laughed a bitter laugh. “And to think, an hour ago I was drinking wine that was probably worth a week’s pay.”

“You mean you went out with Tall, Pale, and Filthy Rich?”

“I was coerced,” Harry explained.

“Ah,” said Amy wisely, “this is about the rent thing.”

“Not just that, though I still think I’m right and you’re wrong.”

“Forgive me if I struggle to see a year’s free rent as a bad thing.”

“Look, can we drop this for now?” Amy shrugged, then gestured for Harry to continue his story.

“Okay, so, I was with Lord Toffington at this posh fucking restaurant--don’t laugh, Amy, I’m in pain--”

“Lord Toffington,” Amy echoed, taking a gulp of tequila to quiet her laughter. This led to some choking and spluttering before Harry was able to continue.

“All right, so his company was fucking irritating, but the wine was expensive but it was free for me, so there I was, not leaving. But then he got to be too much and I decided to get up and leave after all but then I ran into someone--Amy, it’s not funny, look, stop laughing--Amy, it was my uncle!”

“Oh,” said Amy, her laughter abruptly cutting off. “Oh, Harry, I’m so sorry.”

“It was _awful_. I--I just froze, Amy, I didn’t know what to do. I felt like I was five years old again, like he was going to lock me in my cupboard. Sorry, I mean, I was just scared of him.”

“It’s okay, Harry,” she said, taking his hand. “It’s okay to say what happened.”

Harry swallowed hard. “Anyway.”

“Anyway.”

“And Draco was actually pretty good about it, I mean he didn’t know Vernon but he read the room and he tried to stand between us. It was decent of him. And then the restaurant guy, what’s it called, like the host but for a posh fucking restaurant--”

“Maitre’d,” Amy murmured.

“Right, the maitre’d who was a good bloke was calling the cops on Vernon and Petunia I think or he was threatening to, and I hid in the loo and Draco went in there to check that I was all right, which was sweet, I mean if it’d been me I think I’d have fucking run--”

“No you wouldn’t’ve,” said Amy.

“No I wouldn’t,” Harry agreed. “But then--then he started asking me these questions--” Harry was cut off by the sound of the buzzer.

“Hold on, love. Let me just go tell whoever it is to bugger off, then you can finish your story.” Amy patted Harry’s knee, then went to the intercom.

“Who is it?”

“It’s Draco Malfoy. Is Harry there?”

Amy looked over to Harry, who shook his head frantically. She turned back to the intercom.

“Er, let me just check the linen closet, and I’ll be right back with an answer on that.” She let go of the intercom button then turned to Harry with her hands on her hips. “What did he _do_ to have you so frightened?”

“As if stalking isn’t enough? How does he know where you live? Or did he follow me?”

“Honestly, Harry,” Amy huffed. “He knows where I live because I _told_ him.”

“You’re the one who gave him my address!” Harry exclaimed in horror.

“I am,” she admitted.

“Traitor! Fuck, I need to get out of here. And possibly out of town. Do you think Sweden is accepting immigrants? I could be Swedish.”

“Harry, calm the fuck down and tell me what has you so worked up.”

“He asked some weird questions. He knew some weird things. Amy, he knew about my parents. And then he said--” Harry broke off and shook his head. It was too strange, too ridiculous, too upsetting to repeat.

“You’re clearly upset,” said Amy gently, “and you’ve been drinking tequila, so I’ll tell him to bugger off, at least till--”

But she was interrupted by the sound of the door unbolting itself.

“Sorry,” said Draco, stepping into the room, “but it’s bloody _cold_ outside. Hello, Amy. Harry.”

“What the fuck,” said Amy. “How did you…?”

“I told you, Harry. Wizards.”

“You’re right,” said Amy to Harry, “He’s absolutely fucking bonkers. Shouldn’t have doubted you, love.”

“Let that be a lesson,” said Harry weakly.

“Look, I’m _not_ having you on,” said Draco. He brandished a polished piece of wood. “I’m a wizard. This is my wand. I use it to do magic.”

Harry watched as Amy inched toward the drawer where she kept her pepper spray. But at that moment, Draco muttered some mumbo jumbo and a bunch of birds popped into existence out of thin air. Both stared in shock for a good thirty seconds before Amy pursed her lips.

“I bet David Blaine could do that,” she said.

Draco sighed in great frustration and waved the stick around some more. The birds flew into the shape of a hand giving the two-finger salute and a ribbon appeared bearing the words, “Fuck David Caine.”

“It’s _Blaine_ ,” Harry corrected. “David Blaine. He’s a famous magician.”

“Fuck David Blaine,” the ribbon was corrected to read.

“Have I done enough?” Draco asked after another long silent moment. “Can we discuss this now?”

“Can you make decent tequila appear?” Harry blurted out.

Draco smirked slightly. “Give me the bottle.”

Reluctantly, Harry handed over the tequila bottle. Draco pointed his stick at it and muttered a nonsense word, and all the liquid inside disappeared. Before Harry could so much as protest, Draco said another word, and the bottle refilled with brown liquid.

“That’s not tequila,” Harry said, because he was at a loss for anything _else_ to say.

“True enough,” Draco agreed amiably. “It’s my father’s finest firewhisky. You can’t conjure food or drink, but you can Summon it into a different container. It’s Gamp’s Third Law of Transfiguration.” Draco sniffed poshly. “We don’t keep tequila in the Manor.”

“ _Manor_ ,” Amy echoed faintly.

“Give me that,” said Harry, snatching the bottle from Draco and taking a few gulps before handing it over to Amy.

“Jesus _fucking_ Christ!” she exclaimed after drinking her own measure. “My throat is on fucking fire!”

“There’s a reason we call it firewhisky,” said Draco drily.

“All right,” said Harry, some smoke escaping his mouth with the words, “I think we’re nearly pissed enough to listen to whatever it is you have to say.”

“Perhaps we should sit?” Draco said, raising an eyebrow at Amy as if she were a society hostess making a gaffe.

“Oh, er, yeah--won’t you sit down, m’lord?” she said, quickly transitioning from flustered to mocking.

“Thank you,” said Draco primly, sitting gingerly on the one armchair, a hideous orange corduroy monstrosity that Amy had rescued from a curbside. That left Harry and Amy to perch nervously on the sofa (a pink and green paisley, courtesy of Oxfam).

“Right, well.” Draco cleared his throat. “Harry, as unfortunate as it is that it falls to me to tell you this, I suppose I must. You’re famous.” When neither Harry nor Amy made a move to do anything but stare at him in disbelief, Draco continued. “Wizards and witches live alongside the Muggle world--that’s what we call your world, the one without magic in it. I suppose I should start with that. We’ve got our own government, schools, even a few all-Wizarding villages.”

“And nobility?” Amy said.

“Of a sort,” said Draco with smarmy false modesty. “Anyway, around the time we were all tadpoles, there was a war. A Dark wizard called Voldemort was trying to take over.”

Harry noticed how Draco stumbled over the name, and it gave him the shivers. As ludicrous as this all sounded, he could tell Draco was deadly serious about it.

“The Dark Lord, as his--as some called him, wanted only certain wizards to be in charge, the elite if you will. People like my family, whose families have been all wizards for generations. See, some wizards and witches are born to Muggle parents--but I needn’t get into all that now. Suffice it to say that the Dark Lord was prejudiced and cruel, sort of like your Hitler.”

“He wasn’t _our_ Hitler!” Amy protested.

“I only meant that he was a Muggle,” Draco clarified.

Neither Amy or Harry was entirely sure what was going on, but both were fairly certain Draco was being snobby. Draco calmed their raised hackles by continuing.

“Some people, of course, resisted the Dark Lord. Your parents were among them, Harry. They fought the Dark Lord to the end.”

Amy put her hand on Harry’s knee, squeezing.

“You mean--my mum and dad could do magic?”

Draco nodded solemnly. “Your dad, James Potter, came from a Pureblood family like mine--well, all right, not like mine, but old and wealthy nonetheless. Your mum was Muggleborn, as I suppose you might have guessed. Those troglodytes were relatives of hers, were they not?”

“Petunia is my mum’s sister,” Harry agreed.

“Well then, you have a neat lesson on why some wizards hate Muggles.”

“Your family was on _his_ side, weren’t you?” Harry realized suddenly. “This Voldemort? You talk like a friend of ours, Davy, who used to be a skinhead. He still says really shitty things sometimes when he’s not watching himself.”

“I’m telling Davy you made that comparison,” said Amy.

“That’d be a laugh,” Harry agreed.

“I--you--” Draco seemed at a loss for words.

“It’s all right if you used to be a racist prick,” said Amy, “as long as you aren’t one any more.”

“Yes--well--” Draco cleared his throat. “Thank you. Right then, your parents, Harry.”

“They were on the other side of the war?” Harry asked cautiously, “Against Voldemort?”

“They were.” Draco agreed. “And they were enough of a problem for him that Voldemort went after them himself. He killed them, Harry. And, as far as my world is aware, he killed you as well.”

“I don’t understand,” said Harry. He wanted to say more, but was at a loss.

“Well, it wasn’t a normal murder. There are other families who died by the Dark Lord’s hand, though it was rare enough as he usually sent one of his Death Eaters to do his dirty work.”

Amy snorted. “ _Death Eaters_?”

Draco smiled slightly. “I suppose it’s a bit of a silly name, if you don’t have the associations most wizards do with it.”

“Right, sorry.”

“No matter,” sad Draco. “My point is, you wouldn’t be famous at all if the Dark Lord had survived the encounter with you.”

“What do you mean?” Harry asked.

“That’s why everyone in the Wizarding world knows your name, even though they believe you died as an infant. The Dark Lord killed your parents, and then, when he apparently killed you, it backfired somehow. He lost his powers, almost died. Disappeared completely for a decade or so. Because you were, apparently, the last one he turned his wand on, you were celebrated the world over for defeating the Dark Lord. The Boy Martyr, they call you. People wear lockets with your picture in them, Harry.”

Draco was interrupted by Amy’s slowly rising hysterical laughter. Harry simply sat back, looking gobsmacked.

When Amy quietened down a bit, he said, “But I don’t understand. I _didn’t_ die, did I?”

“Apparently not,” said Draco.

“Then...what happened? Why does everyone think that? Why--” He cut himself off, but both the others could hear the unasked question. _Why was I left with people who hated me?_

“That’s the mystery,” Draco said thoughtfully. “I haven’t had much time to think it over myself, but I have a few guesses. You’ve never done magic, have you? Made anything happen that you couldn’t explain?”

“No,” said Harry. “Despite my aunt’s constant shouting to the contrary, I’m as normal as they come. Well, except for--wait a minute. Did my aunt know my mum was a--that she could do spells?”

“Witch, Harry, you can say it,” said Draco. “And I don’t see how she could _not_ have known. The Muggle families of witches and wizards are always told when they get their Hogwarts letters.” At the blank looks, Draco added, “Oh, Hogwarts is England’s school of witchcraft and wizardry. Everyone with magical talent in the country gets an acceptance letter when they turn eleven.”

“So--I’m _not_ a wizard,” said Harry slowly.

“It would appear not,” Draco agreed with a frown.

“Why not?” Amy demanded.

Draco shrugged. “It’s possible you were born a Squib--that is, someone with Wizarding parents who has no magic himself. Or…” Draco’s eyes lit up. “Or, whatever it is you did to cause the Dark Lord’s curse to backfire stripped you of the magical power you were born with.”

“ _Fuck_ ,” said Harry feelingly, and swiped the bottle of firewhisky back from Amy.

“Indeed,” said Draco.

“And Petunia _knew_ this?” Harry spat.

“Some of it, at least. She’d have had to.”

“That explains a lot,” said Harry.

Draco looked on helplessly as Amy put a comforting arm around Harry’s shoulders. He wondered who it was that had made the decision to place the boy who should have been a rich, powerful wizard in a situation that left him a broken, desperate Muggle. He decided right there that, whoever it was, he’d have their head.

“Harry--” he began, but cut himself off when a shout was heard in the doorway and a jet of bright green light zipped over his shoulder, narrowly missing Amy’s head before blasting a hole in the wall.

“Get down!” Draco shouted at the other two as he drew his wand and stood. In the doorway was a woman with wild dark curls and a maniacal gleam in her eye.

“Found you at last, nephew,” she said. “Come with Auntie Bella. If you kill the Muggles, our Lord may have mercy.”

Draco answered her with a nonverbal curse, and the duel began.

Harry and Amy watched in astonishment from their spot behind the couch. Draco was exchanging rapidfire beams of light--spells, they supposed--with the crazy woman--his aunt?--and blasting holes in the walls all the while. It was difficult to follow a fight so different from anything they’d ever seen, but Harry had an inkling that the woman was the superior fighter. As if to prove him right, Draco sent a last, attention-grabbing spell (it caused a miniature dust storm around the woman’s face) and retreated behind the couch. Before they knew it, Harry and Amy each felt a grip on their arms, then a horrible squeezing sensation as the world went black.

As their sight came back and their ribs expanded again, they looked around. They appeared to be underground, in some sort of system of dark tunnels.

“Where are we?” Amy demanded.

“France,” said Draco, who was hunched over, arms wrapped around himself.

“And where is Lump?”

“What’s Lump?” Draco asked, looking to Harry for elucidation of her odd request.

“My cat,” Amy explained shortly.

“Oh.” Draco straightened, revealing that his arms had been wrapped around the cat in question. “Appropriate name. He’s deuced heavy.”

“Lump!” Amy exclaimed, trying to make a grab for the cat. However, Lump wouldn’t come off of Draco’s shirt.

“Sorry, hold on,” said Draco. He drew his wand, pointed it at the cat, and muttered something, after which Lump promptly leapt off of him and into Amy’s arms. “I had to use a Sticking Charm to carry him and Apparate both of you at the same time.”

“You stopped what you were doing in the middle of a fight to secure a cat to your person?” Amy asked.

“So it would seem,” said Draco wryly.

“I can’t _believe_ you didn’t want to date him,” said Amy to Harry.

“We just almost _died_ because he was there,” Harry pointed out. Then added, “I think. I mean, I don’t know spells, but she _was_ trying to kill us, wasn’t she?”

“Most assuredly,” said Draco.

“And that was your aunt?” Draco nodded. “Good to know I’m not the only one, I suppose,” Harry said.

“The situations are not an exact match,” Draco remarked.

“Aren’t they?”

“What do we do now?” Amy interrupted to ask.

Draco sighed. “Welcome to life on the run. It can be rather uncomfortable at times, but fortunately two of the three of us are excessively wealthy, which ought to cut down on the inconvenience.”

“What do you mean, two of the three of us?” Harry asked apprehensively.

“Why, _you_ , of course,” said Draco. “You’re the heir to two of the biggest fortunes in Wizarding England.”

“Sorry?”

“Just come with me,” Draco demanded, leading them to the next tunnel. There was a screech, and Draco and Harry turned to find Amy staring at the walls, clutching her cat.

“Those are skulls!” she exclaimed.

“We’re in the Paris Catacombs,” Draco explained as gently as he could manage. “There’s a back entrance to the French branch of Gringotts through here.” Both Muggles stared at him blankly, so Draco sighed and added, “Wizard bank.”

“Right,” said Harry slowly, “The bank with my _fortune_ in it.”

“Well, no, that would be the English branch,” said Draco, “but I’m sure the goblins here would have no problem letting you borrow against it.” With that, he led them forward.

There was a pause, during which Amy examined the artfully stacked skulls and bones with horrified fascination. Then there was a patter of feet as she caught up with the other two.

“Goblins?” she asked.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The important character was Lump, obviously.


	4. According to His Means

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> If the discovery that his parents were murdered wizards, followed shortly by an attack on his best friend's apartment by acolytes of the murderer, hadn't been the strangest thing to happen to him tonight, Harry would have expected that the French goblin bank would make the cut.
> 
> Sadly, he was wrong.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The boys are back in town, and by "the boys" I mean me. Welcome to another chapter of rapidly escalating socialist nonsense. So glad you could be here for it.

“Just around the corner,” said Draco after a few minutes’ trek through the Catacombs.

“Hold on for a mo.” He stopped, and looked Harry and Amy up and down.

“What?” Harry demanded acidly.

“We all look a little the worse for wear, I think,” Draco mused. “There are a few charms I can use--they freshen clothes, get the wrinkles out, that sort of thing. Would you mind if I used them on you?”

“Can they remove cat hair?” Amy asked hopefully.

Draco eyed Lump speculatively.

“From clothes,” Amy clarified.

“Sorry--do clothes get cat hair on them?” Draco’s furrowed brow smoothed as a realization came to him. “Of course. Wizarding clothes come charmed against that sort of thing. It’s a bit more advanced than I am in tailoring, but I’m sure we can eventually find someone who can charm your clothes so that the cat’s hair doesn’t stick to them in the first place.”

“Blessed be,” said Amy feelingly.

“Quite. Now, if you’ll hold still?”

Amy did so, and Draco pointed his wand at her, muttering to himself. By the time he was finished, her rainbow tie-dye sweatshirt was looking brighter, the hole in the elbow patched, and her faded jeans seemed to fit her a good deal better than they ever had.

“Harry, you _have_ to let him do this,” said Amy. “This is amazing.”

Harry groaned. “Fine.”

For his not-a-date that night, he’d put on his nicest shirt, a faded purple button-down that showed him to some advantage, despite being a little big on him. As Draco worked his _literal fucking magic_ , he felt the shirt tightening around his shoulders and chest. He heard a series of popping noises and looked down to see--

“Are those _silver_ buttons?”

“Looks better that way,” said Draco.

“Looks _ridiculous_ , you mean--wait, what have you done to my trousers?”

Draco shrugged. “I removed the wrinkles.”

“Are those _pleats_? What century is this?”

“You look presentable,” Draco sniffed. “You should be thanking me.”

“Nobody wears pleats,” Harry grumbled, but he shrugged his thanks anyway, and they went on their way again. Harry followed easily enough as Draco turned into a little alcove that had a nondescript wooden door in it. Amy, however, stopped walking.

“What are you doing?” she asked nervously. “It says ‘danger.’”

“I don’t see where,” said Harry, looking around in confusion.

“There’s a sign--” Amy cut herself off to make an alarmed squeaking noise. “You just walked right through it!”

Harry furrowed his brow. “Some kind of hologram?”

“Magic,” said Draco tersely, before turning back to the door, which he had been fiddling with.

“Then why is it only working on Amy?”

“Squibs can see things Muggles can’t,” Draco informed him distractedly. Then he waved his wand in a complicated pattern and muttered something in what Harry supposed was French. It was kind of hot, Draco muttering in French with his arse on display as he leaned toward the door. Then Draco reached out and opened the door, and Harry wasn’t thinking about anyone’s arse any more.

The wall melted away into a high, open archway, revealing a gorgeous entrance hall, all columns and arches in white stone. It was fairly empty, except for a few short men in immaculate suits. Harry supposed these men--guards, were they?--were the goblins Draco had mentioned, what with their pointy ears and such. They were certainly intimidating, height aside.

Draco stepped forward, beckoning to Harry. Harry grabbed Amy’s hand and led her to the archway.

“You want me to just _walk through the wall?_ ” she asked.

“It’s not really there, I swear,” Harry assured her.

“This is some trip,” Amy muttered, and, clutching tighter to her cat, she squeezed her eyes shut and stepped through. When she opened her eyes, she gasped just as Harry had.

By this point Draco had approached one of the goblins and was exchanging words with him in smooth, businesslike French. Amy didn’t say anything, but her wide eyes said to Harry, _Those are actual goblins!_ Harry responded with a look that said, _I know! What the fuck?_

Presently Draco finished his conversation and called Harry’s and Amy’s names, gesturing for them to follow him. They took echoing steps through the entrance hall until they found themselves turning a corner into a quieter, lower-ceilinged corridor lined with polished wooden doors. The goblin security guard opened one, spoke in low tones to the goblin--account manager, Harry supposed--inside, and then nodded for them all to enter the office. The room was bare except for a large desk and the chair in which its denizen sat--there weren’t even any chairs for clients. The security goblin shut the door behind them, quietly but with finality.

“Good evening, Mr. Malfoy,” said the goblin behind the desk in French-accented English.

“Well met, Silvertooth. These are my friends, Harry Potter and Amy…”

“Hopkins,” Amy supplied, adding at a mutter, “Not that it matters.”

“Amy Hopkins. Harry, Amy, this is Silvertooth, my account manager. She can be trusted to see to our needs with efficiency and discretion.” Harry thought that was an odd remark, but the goblin smiled a pointy, dangerous smile.

“Draco, you flatterer,” she said, “you’ll make me blush.”

“One of these days,” said Draco with a sigh.

“Er, well met, Ms. Silvertooth,” said Harry.

The goblin laughed. “Just Silvertooth, Mr. Potter. Goblins have no need for your human honorifics.”

“Right,” said Harry bemusedly, "sorry."

“Now that we’re all acquainted,” said Draco, “I have a rather irregular request. You have heard of Harry, I presume, Silvertooth?”

She blinked. “No. I know the name Potter, of course, but not this Mr. Potter specifically.”

“Ah.” Draco seemed surprised, but recovered quickly. “Well, it’s all tied to Wizarding politics, so I suppose you’d have no reason to be aware. Harry is the last of the Potter line, but has not yet had the chance to claim his inheritance, as he was until recently believed to be deceased.”

Silvertooth’s eyes lit up. “They’ll have me sitting at Ripjaw’s right hand for our next Counting Day feast if you are proposing what I think you are.”

“I know,” said Draco smugly. “Harry, meet your new account manager.”

“I already did,” Harry pointed out. For some reason, this made both Draco and Silvertooth laugh.

“Well, then, Mr. Potter, do sit.” Silvertooth waved her hand, and three chairs appeared. Harry noticed her claws were covered in what appeared to be real gold leaf.

“Harry was raised in the Muggle world,” Draco informed the goblin. “As far as we can tell, he is a squib--he was able to see the back door, but has never shown any signs of having magic of his own. Until recently, he was entirely ignorant to the existence of the Wizarding world and, therefore, to the existence of his inheritance.”

“Well then,” said Silvertooth with apparent relish, “I suppose I should begin by flooing the British branch for his records, shouldn’t I?”

“You should,” Draco agreed, and Silvertooth rushed out of the office.

“Flooing?” Harry asked weakly.

“It’s a form of travel and communication via fireplaces,” Draco told him.

“Ah.” Harry reached over toward Amy to scratch between Lump’s ears. The unflappable cat was half-asleep in her arms, purring lightly. An awkward silence settled as they waited for Silvertooth to return.

***

As it happened, Harry was enormously rich. It took several times going through his account statements and having Wizarding money explained to him for this fact to sink in, but eventually it _did_ sink in.

“Amy,” he said in amazement, looking up from the parchment in his hands, “this money could get us both through uni. Easily.”

“Harry, I couldn’t--”

“Of _course_ you can take my money,” Harry said. “Weren’t you just telling me--”

“But it’s diff--”

“Of course it’s different,” said Harry. “ _He_ grew up throwing money around. All I’ve ever wanted was a family and enough money to feed them. You’re the only person I love, Amy.”

Amy was beginning to tear up, so she awkwardly held her cat in front of her face to hide that. Harry looked around. Silvertooth appeared vaguely disgusted with the emotional display, while Draco was staring at him with an odd expression.

“What?” Harry snapped.

“Nothing,” said Draco. “And I don’t throw money around. That would be gauche.”

Harry snorted.

****

Harry had no problem at all withdrawing a sack of Wizarding coin from the French goblin bank (and, God, his life certainly had taken a turn in the past twenty-four hours). His curiously light new coin purse contained what Draco had assured him would be “sufficient” funds, and while he still didn’t fully understand Wizarding money, Harry was fairly sure he now held in his hands more money than he had ever had in his Muggle bank account at one time. Draco led him and Amy out of the bank through a bustling reception area and onto a crowded street.

“Welcome to the _Rue des Sorciers_ ,” said Draco with a small smile. “This is the heart of Wizarding Paris.”

It was incredible. Harry had never been out of the country before, let alone to _magical_ Paris, and he struggled to focus on any one thing for more than a second. People milled about in outfits that looked like crosses between magistrate’s robes and business suits, wearing oddly-shaped, gaudy hats and laughing careless French laughs. Food stalls abounded with sandwiches and hot drinks and, in one case, crepes that flipped themselves while the proprietor chatted with her customers. The storefronts varied wildly from those that seemed somewhat familiar--patisseries, clothing stores, bookstores--to those that seemed anachronistic or simply bizarre--apothecaries, menageries, a gloomy antique shop straight out of Dickens, a storefront that merely displayed a single, inexplicable silver instrument that moved on its own. When Harry looked up he found the sky filled with owls in flight, deftly avoiding columns of colored smoke coming from an array of stone chimneys. It being night-time, candles glowed in the shop windows, and globes of soft yellow light floated just above the heads of passers-by. Music was coming from just down the street, and Harry peered ahead to see a street performer playing a violin with a cello standing on its own next to him, playing itself in accompaniment. Beside him, Amy took a deep whiff of the air.

“I want to eat _everything_ ,” she announced.

“I know a lovely restaurant,” Draco assured her. “We should be safe while we’re in public--even Aunt Bella wouldn’t risk a highly visible attack on foreign soil. When it comes to lodgings, though, we should lie low.”

“You’re pretty used to this, aren’t you?” Harry asked quietly. “Being on the run?”

“Two years now,” Draco responded, just as quietly.

“I’m sorry to hear that,” said Amy, “but can we save the heavy conversation for after we’ve eaten?”

Harry put a hand on the small of her back, a gesture of comfort. He knew that comments like that were just Amy’s way of coping with stress.

“Let’s eat,” he said. Draco led them through the streets, constantly looking over his shoulder to make certain they hadn’t lost track of him. His concerns were not unfounded. Twice Amy and Harry bumped into each other, so distracted were they by the sights, and once Amy almost lost hold of Lump when a woman passed them followed by a neat, orderly line of rats in tiny capes.

Soon enough, they were passing through the unassuming front of a small but neat restaurant. It had dark hardwood floors, white tablecloths, and real silver cutlery that twinkled in the golden glow diffused from the hundred or so candles that floated near the ceiling. There was no staff visible when they stepped inside, but soon enough a waiter swept out from the kitchen.

The man, almost as short as Harry and with black hair to his shoulders, said something exuberant that began with “ _Bienvenue_ ” and then rapidly descended into sounds Harry could not distinguish. Draco responded in his gorgeous, fluent French and soon had the waiter leading them to a table, chatting rapidly all the while. That is, until he saw Harry and stopped dead, his handsome face turning white.

“James?” he whispered.

Harry swallowed hard. “You knew my father?”

If possible, the waiter’s eyes widened even more.

“Who are you?” Harry asked.

“I’m, er.” The waiter blinked. “If this isn’t a hallucination, it’s possible that I’m your godfather. Harry?”

“My what?” Harry demanded.

“Ah!” Draco exclaimed. “Well, that explains things. Harry Potter, this is my cousin, Sirius Black.”

“You’re Narcissa’s boy?” Sirius asked in some surprise.

“Your cousin is my godfather?” Harry asked at the same time.

“Meow,” said Lump, and jumped straight into Sirius’ arms.

It was at that moment that Amy broke out into half-hysterical laughter.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> :)


	5. Soup for My Family

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Harry meets Sirius.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yeah, I'm still alive. It's been a rough year, friends and nemeses. I'm suffering from a temporary disability that limits my reading and writing time. Readers of 'The Locket' will be either pleased or exasperated to know that story isn't abandoned, either. It will just take time.
> 
> As it is, hope you all enjoy the chapter and are staying safe and masking up.

“Well, hello there,” said a dazed Sirius to his sudden armful of cat.

Harry went to calm Amy down, as she was still laughing hysterically, and Draco spoke to Sirius in a low voice.

“I am glad we’ve run into you. I was under the impression you were dead.”

“Seems to be a lot of that going around these days,” Sirius acknowledged, still wearing a distant expression as he petted Lump, who was once again purring.

“I’ve known Harry was alive for less than a month,” Draco added. “I haven’t been able to re-establish contact with the Order in the past year or so, and we were under some pressure to exit the country with haste, so I brought him here.”

At that point, Amy was calm enough that Harry could turn his attention back to them.

“I didn’t know I had a godfather,” he said to Sirius.

“I didn’t know I still had a godson,” Sirius replied. And for a moment, they just stared at each other, drinking each other in. _Family_.

“The cat likes him,” said Amy, ever the tension-breaker.

“High praise indeed,” said Sirius, a charming smile starting to emerge. “Does he have a bit of kneazle in him? Or is he just a muggle cat with good taste?”

“That’s probably a great question,” said Amy, “but I didn’t understand a word of it.”

Sirius cocked his head. “Muggleborn?”

“Muggle,” Draco corrected shortly, with a look that warned Sirius not to inquire further.

“Well,” he said, “Well. Let’s get you upstairs before I start weeping in front of the patrons, yeah?”

“Yeah,” Harry choked out, and followed him in a daze. Amy warily joined the parade, with Draco bringing up the rear.

They were partway up a dim servants’ staircase when Sirius made a harassed noise and stopped dead. He drew out his wand--fuck, was Harry _already_ getting used to that?--and muttered something in Latin. An enormous, glowing silver wolf emerged and dashed down the stairs, moving straight through Harry. He was left with a euphoric feeling, grinning and breathless.

“ _Cool_ ,” he whispered. Sirius laughed, and even Draco cracked a smile.

Harry turned to Amy to share the moment, but she only looked puzzled.

“You didn’t see?”

Amy shook her head. They continued up the stairs. At the top, there was a wooden door, as old and dark as the staircase and its paneled walls. But the room that the door opened upon was _not_ dark. It was beautiful: a huge flat full of open spaces and blond wood. The walls were ivory-colored, and huge windows framed by gauzy curtains let in the hazy glow of the city lights. Elegantly simple furniture was scattered with books, mugs, and various discarded scarves and jackets. And in the corner of the wide-open living room--was that a _motorbike_? Harry shook himself out of his admiring daze in time to catch Sirius staring at him.

“Like it, kid?”

“Yeah,” said Harry, “sure. I do.”

And then Sirius was on him, arms around him and shaking with seismic sobs. Harry froze at first, but then he thought, _godfather_ , and returned the hug. And maybe he cried a little, too. After all, he’d had a long day. A long life, really. When Sirius’ sobs had worn down to sniffles, he started talking.

“I can’t believe it. Harry. I can’t fucking believe it. You were dead--Dumbledore said so--everybody thought--I mean everybody _knew_ \--but you’re here! Kid!”

“‘M here,” Harry said. Sirius grasped his shoulders and stepped back to look at him. It was an intense look; Sirius’ eyes were an unyielding gray.

“But how?” Sirius asked, voice cracking. “How can it have been secret? Hogwarts, at least--the Book would have had to register magical activity--how--?”

Draco cleared his throat. “Perhaps we should sit down?”

“Right,” Sirius muttered, looking around the room. “Right. _Facadio_!”

The items of clutter on the various surfaces levitated and began to orbit each other like in _The Sword in the Stone_. With a suction-cup noise, a door popped into existence--a squat cupboard-door that made Harry shudder. The door opened, and the flying objects were sucked into its dark depths. Once everything was inside, the cupboard sealed itself and disappeared.

“Have a seat,” said Sirius, waving his hand broadly. Draco settled himself on what proved to be a pale grey canvas settee.

“Pretty magic,” he said politely. “I don’t think I know that one.”

“James’ mum taught it to us,” said Sirius with a weak smile. “She said it was the fastest way to clean up a room. We were thrilled, till the cupboard showed up again in the middle of the night and shouted at us to put everything away properly.”

“--My grandmother?” Harry asked.

“That’s right, kid. You’d have liked her. That is--I mean--everyone did.”

“She sounds great.” But Harry wasn’t sure what he meant by that, when actually he was horrified at the idea of conjuring a cupboard that shouted at you to do your chores. He didn’t particularly like the sound of his paternal grandmother, in fact. But judging by the soft look Sirius gave him, Harry’s instinct toward politeness had been a good one.

“I’ll teach it to you,” said Sirius throatily.

“Cousin,” Draco interjected sharply, “Perhaps we ought to catch up before we begin scheduling play-dates.”

“Right.” Sirius sat down heavily. Then stood back up. “Tea?”

“ _Sit_ ,” said Draco firmly. Sirius sat, taking a sparsely padded seventeenth century armchair across from the settee. With a huff, Amy sank onto the settee next to Draco. Lump, by all appearances just as tired from sleeping in Amy’s arms as she was from carrying him, oozed onto her lap and passed out belly-up. Harry stayed standing.

“I can’t do magic,” he said after a pause.

“Of course you can,” said Sirius. “I was there for your first bout! You were a prodigy, Harry. You got so excited about your first birthday cake that you set fireworks off all around the dining room. Real fire! Singed Moony’s moustache--thanks for that, by the way, you got him to do what I never could, shaved the thing off that very night--Harry, I know who you are. I bought you your first broom!”

“My what?” said Harry sharply. He remembered the first broom Petunia had given him. He’d been six years old, and hadn’t eaten until he’d learned to use it. He’d told this to Amy one grim vodka night, so she understood enough to look at him sympathetically.

“Don’t quote me,” she said, “but I think he means a flying broom.”

“Flying broom,” Harry repeated.

“Of course I do!” said Sirius. “What other kind is there?”

Harry decided this would be a good time to sit down.

“I told you, Sirius, that Harry and I met recently,” Draco began, cutting through the thick silence, “but I haven’t told you how.”

“That wasn’t my first question,” Sirius pointed out.

“It should have been,” said Draco. “You’ve had a shock, though. I’ll tell you now. I met Harry at a Muggle tea shop. Where he worked.”

“I assume, from your tone, that it wasn’t for a lark?”

“Survival,” said Harry.

Sirius turned to him with sad eyes. “I’m sorry to hear that, kid.”

Harry shrugged awkwardly. Draco cleared his throat and continued.

“At first I thought Harry was only an exceptionally charismatic Muggle, but eventually it came out that he was, in fact, _the_ Harry. At which point I took it upon myself to inform him of the existence of the Wizarding world.”

“I punched him and ran away,” Harry interjected proudly. Sirius laughed.

“He ran to our place,” said Amy, gesturing to herself and the snoring cat. “This was tonight, by the way.”

“Amy’s my best--only--mate,” said Harry, “so I went to her to hide. How was I to know that this tosser had actual _superpowers_?”

“I did tell you,” Draco sniffed.

“You found out about magic tonight?” Sirius clarified.

“Not four hours ago,” said Harry grimly.

“And you...haven’t...you can’t…”

“I’m a squid,” Harry informed him.

Sirius blinked. “Sorry?”

“Squib,” Draco corrected, surprisingly gentle. “You’re a squib.”

Sirius appeared to be processing the news, expression thoughtful.

“The working theory,” said Draco, “is that whatever accident that led to the Dark Lord’s--er--sabbatical, attacked Harry’s magic, taking it but sparing his life.”

“You think his magic sacrificed itself to save him? How is that possible?”

“I don’t know.” Draco leaned forward. “But I do have one theory--”

“Lads,” said Amy. “D’you think you can geek out later? Maybe wizards live differently, but me and Harry need to eat sometime tonight.”

“Right!” Sirius jumped up. “Right, I’ll get us something. Any requests?” He turned to Harry. “Any favorites?”

“I’m not picky,” said Harry. “Neither is Amy--just, no meat for her.”

“You’ve come to the wrong country, Amy,” said Sirius with a grin, “but at least you’ve come to the right restaurant.” Then he summoned another of those silver creatures, which galloped through the wall as Amy examined Sirius’ raised wand, squinting.

“How come I can’t see when _you_ do spells?” she asked. “I could see the ones Draco did.”

“Different kind of spell,” said Draco.

“That one’s called a Patronus,” Sirius explained. “We use them to send messages, but the spell was originally designed to create a sort of...er...guardian against Dementors. Which are a type of Dark creature.”

“I still don’t get why I can’t see it,” Amy protested.

“Well,” said Draco, eyes lighting up again, “it’s a vastly understudied area, but I like the theory that Muggles can see any magic that is designed for _people_ \--I mean, humans mostly--to see. The Patronus charm is designed to frighten Dementors. Wizards and squibs can see magic _itself_ , so it’s visible to us, but for a Muggle to see a Patronus, the spell would probably have to be altered at the level of intention, if not deeper.”

“Haz,” said Amy, “can you believe you’re dating this nerd?”

“I’m really, really not,” said Harry.

“You could be,” said Draco.

“True,” Amy agreed. “You are ‘charismatic.’”

“Honestly,” said Harry tightly, “I’m not in the mood to joke about my sex life right now. The world is upside down, my parents were murdered, we’re on the run, and I had family all the time and _nobody told me_.”

“We didn’t _know_ , pup,” said Sirius. “We didn’t know, either. I’m sorry.”

“Me too,” said Harry. “I just wish I could talk to whoever’s responsible.”

Another uncomfortable silence stretched until a waiter from downstairs knocked on the door with their food. Cutlery was included, but Sirius levitated a bottle of wine and four glasses into the room from the kitchen.

“Does everyone here drink?” he asked. At the others’ nods, he enchanted the bottle to pour for all of them. With alcohol and good food in front of them, Harry and Amy went quiet and began tucking in as if they’d been living on cheese toasties and cup noodles for years--which, of course, they had. Sirius looked on with concern while Draco tried to distract him with light gossip. This being a time of war, there wasn’t much to be had, and Draco kept trailing off in the middle of stories as he remembered one or more of the participants was now dead. It was so painful that even Harry noticed.

Sirius, however, didn’t seem to mind; he had graduated from looking at Harry with concern to gazing at him in wonderment.

“‘S good food,” Harry said when he was finished.

“Yeah,” Amy chimed in. “It was great.”

“I’m glad you liked it,” said Sirius softly.

“Have we all dined?” Draco asked, placing his knife and fork next to each other meticulously in what Harry supposed was one of those mysterious upper-class rituals meant to send messages to silent servants. “Good. We have more to discuss.”

“Oh,” said Amy drily, “is this the part where we learn about the rabid goths that tried to kill us?”

Draco looked to Sirius and translated, “Bellatrix.”

“Funnily enough,” said Sirius, “I got that from the young lady’s description.”

“I didn’t want to assume,” said Draco. “You know Death Eaters. She could’ve been describing anybody.”

“It’s the look of disgust,” said Sirius. “Telling.”

“Fair enough. She does have a distinctive effect.”

“But how did she find you?” Sirius wondered. “You were hiding in the Muggle world, yeah? I can’t imagine she’d blend in much there.”

“Rather not,” Draco agreed. “Truth be told, I’ve no idea how she tracked me. I don’t see her doing legwork in the Muggle world, nor her minions. I haven’t the contacts to discover whether the Dark Lord might have created some new method of tracking.”

“I don’t like that,” said Sirius. “I may have a way to get in touch with...the right people to investigate that.”

Draco looked up sharply. “Can you? That’s-- _fuck_.”

And then Draco’s head fell into his hands and his shoulders started shaking. Apparently it was a day for crying.

“We’re talking about--what now? The secret organization that lost touch with Draco?” Harry asked.

“We are,” said Sirius. “They’re--friends. Of mine, sure, but what you have to understand--”

“You’re a spy, I get that,” said Harry.

“Well, yes,” Sirius agreed, “but that’s not what I was going to say. I just--it’s strange--it used to be called the Order of the Phoenix, but ever since Dumbledore--”

“How,” said Draco, now resurfacing, “are you keeping in contact with Potterwatch from outside the border? I couldn’t reach them from _Surrey_.”

“--we’re called Potterwatch now,” Sirirus concluded.

“Oh,” said Harry, “I see.”

Draco shrieked. Amy had fallen heavily into his shoulder, now just as deeply asleep as the cat in her lap.

“Too right,” said Sirius in a jokingly crisp accent. “It _is_ getting rather late. Well said, cousin.”

“This is no time to joke!” Draco protested. “D’you know how long I’ve been flying confunded on this? I need to know--”

Draco never got to finish his demand. Apparently it _was_ quite late, because at that moment Sirius’ conjured cupboard felt it was an appropriate time to reappear.

“ _CLEAN PARLOR, CLEAN MAGIC!_ ” it boomed. “ _THE UNICORN LOVES A CLEANLY GLADE! A_ SCOURGIFY _IN TIME SAVES NINE!_ ”

“Pipe down!” Sirius told it. “Fuck! I can’t remember the counter-charm!”

“ _THE TIDY WIZARD IS NEXT TO MERLIN!_ ” the cupboard announced.

“Wha?” Amy grumbled, clutching a still-snoring Lump. Draco had paced to a corner, where he was literally pulling out his hair. Harry watched wide-eyed as Sirius fired a variety of charms at the shouting cupboard, none of which seemed to make an impact.

“Can you set it on fire?” Harry asked curiously.

“There are _books_ in there,” Sirius responded.

“Good point.”

Harry continued to watch as Sirius fired away at the now-dodging cupboard. Eventually he started calling out helpful instructions-- “Lower!” and “A little to the left!,” that sort of thing. It began to feel rather like a game, and Harry found it quite absorbing in his exhaustion.

In fact, everyone in the room was so concerned with their own business that no one even noticed the face that had appeared in the fire not a minute since.


End file.
